Where we were. A patchwork pink and yellow blanket lays the ground, trees shake their pine needle arms, and the sky is pastel aquarium. Oh God, you don’t know. Behind the cliffs that we were thinking of falling down, a caterpillar comes crawling up. Carrying the same blanket colors. But the butterflies aren’t in bloom. They shun us in cocoons of sleepy orange. And our sleepy eyes remember daydream brights. Yeah, and sunsets and rises. We’re only happy in certain shades of color. Almost there. We wait with memories aloft, lofty, up where the hawks should be but they’re not. If they were they’d be shivering feathers like snow. Maroon and frosty leather brown. Into the wrinkles of water that fall their laundry over beds of rocks, where we walk, our bodies ironed against the ground. And then we climb. Watching. Bridges making leaps and bounds. Here we go. Here we are. Where we were.

I am a loud and ardent laughter. Hit in the sides with sunny hues. I might forget everything I say but at least I say. Grinned up and ready, a matter of me is a matter of convalescence. Lung brought and lung given and lung sung--- let me out. I rattle here in pushed down politeness but I am not sorry. What is so solemn that makes you see me unsung even while everything is singing?